


Late Night

by adafrog



Category: Donald Strachey Mysteries (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-23
Updated: 2013-03-23
Packaged: 2017-12-06 04:49:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/731606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adafrog/pseuds/adafrog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Title: Late Night<br/>Author: Adafrog<br/>Rating: PG<br/>Summary: Donald has a late night.<br/>Spoiler: None<br/>Warning: None, really.<br/>(written in 2007)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Late Night

Donald walked into the darkened house, quietly making his way through the construction debris toward the kitchen. His short little case-and he'd never make the mistake of believing Mark again-had turned into a sixteen-hour ordeal. So now, he found himself standing in his kitchen in the early morning, getting an icepack for his newest concussion, hoping he was able to make it to bed without waking his husband. The 'I told you so' was not going to be fun. 

Suddenly hearing a noise behind him, Donald turned, opening the freezer door wider for light, and groaned. "Oh, Timmy." 

Their dining table had been carefully laid with their best china. Candles sat unlit in their holders in the center, keeping a flower arrangement company. To the side of the table-and causing the noise-was a bucket full of melting ice. Presumably the wine was back in the cooler, along with their anniversary dinner.

Opening the refrigerator, he shook his head, seeing two steaks still marinating in a bowl. "I really blew it this time, didn't I, sweetheart?" He looked quickly at the clock, then snatched his keys back up, and headed out the door. 

An hour later he was back in the kitchen, mixing eggs and milk, being very thankful for 24-hour grocery stores, and trying to remember what spices Timmy put in the french toast. Finally deciding that the wrong ones would be worse than none at all, he grabbed the bread, and started cooking. As they finished, he placed them carefully on a tray, already adorned with juice, coffee, and a single red rose. When they were all finished, he grabbed the powdered sugar for a final touch.

Donald made his way into the bedroom, and gently set the tray on the dresser. Turning to Timmy, he ached with the need to burrow under the covers, and wrap himself around him, ruffle his hair, lick his neck. Shaking his head, he firmly told himself 'no,' then moved to Timmy's side, sitting carefully.

"Timmy, wake up," he sing-songed, rubbing his husband's shoulder. Seeing the start of movement, he squeezed, then leaned down, and kissed a temple, then lips as they were presented for him. 

Taking a deep breath, Timmy stretched, and opened his eyes. "Donald." He smiled, then immediately frowned, reaching for the bruise. "What happened?"

Donald caught the wayward hand, squeezed it, then brought it up against his chest. "It's nothing, sweetheart. I just had a little trouble with a brick wall. Don't worry, though," he squeezed the hand again, "I barely dented it."

Timmy rolled his eyes at Donald making light of yet another injury; he asked sarcastically "your head, or the wall?"

"Very funny," Donald slapped Timmy's shoulder. "Now sit up, I have something for you," he ordered, helping him to sit back against the headboard. Finally getting him settled, he went and picked up the tray. "I have brought you," he announced, setting it over Timmy's lap, "a wonderful, delicious almost anniversary breakfast." 

"Yes, but it was yester..." he stopped, finally seeing what Donald had brought, "...day." 

Seeing Timmy's soft look, Donald perched on the bed, and framed Timmy's face with his hands. "I love you so much, and that you put up with me and my job always amazes me. I am so sorry this happened, and wish so much I could tell you it would never again, but you and I both know that's not true." He gazed into Timmy's eyes, and caressed his cheeks with his thumbs. "But I do promise that thinking of you, and coming home to you gets me through all the times I can't be here."

"Oh, Donald," Timmy leaned forward for a long kiss, finally pulling away after a long minute. Giving a shuddering breath, he pushed Donald back, and then picked up the tray. "Can we have breakfast later?" he asked, handing it over, and then throwing the comforter off.

Seeing Timmy stretch his beautifully naked body across their bed, Donald set down the tray as fast as he could. Stalking towards the bed, he threw off his clothes, staring at his husband with lust and passion. 

And on the dresser sat the abandoned french toast, artfully sprinkled with powdered sugar in the following pattern: I'M SORRY.


End file.
